Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (5 page)

He simply didn’t have it to give. Which was the reason that he’d avoided feminine encounters for a good long while now, because he couldn’t stand the disappointment that always seem to punctuate his leaving. He did not hold, he did not cuddle, he did not allow them to hold him.

Taking a chair by the fire, he indicated the one opposite him. Slowly, gracefully, she sank into it. Both her gloved hands circled the glass. Such small hands. He imagined them circling him. He’d barely know they were there. Perhaps—

He forced away the thoughts because his body was reacting and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. He sipped slowly on his Scotch while she studied the fire. Finally she brought her gaze to bear on him.

“Geoffrey—” she began.

“Geoffrey?”

She gave him a small smile. “Lord Wortham. I’m afraid I’ve not quite accepted that my father is gone. Anyway, he said I was here to manage your household, but quite honestly it appears to be well managed already, so I’m not quite certain what I could contribute.”

“I’m certain you can contribute quite a bit.” He savored another long sip. “What were his exact words?”

Her delicate brow furrowed, she looked back at the fire. “That I was to see to your needs.”

“
My
needs,” he emphasized. “Not those of my residence.”

Her gaze swung back to him, the furrow deeper. “I’m not sure I understand. Do you not have a valet to see to your needs?”

“I have a valet.”

“Then I can’t see that I would have much to do.”

She was too innocent, far too innocent for the likes of him. He should send her back to her brother, but unfortunately for Evelyn, he had decided that he wanted her. He wasn’t quite certain when it struck him so forcefully that he did. Perhaps when he opened the parlor door and saw her waiting there. Waiting for him. When had anyone ever been waiting for him?

“What did you think was the purpose of last night’s . . . entertainment?”

“To secure me a husband.”

He nearly choked on his Scotch. The very last thing he would ever contemplate was marriage. If she knew him at all, she’d know that. But therein resided part of the problem: she didn’t know him, and he preferred to keep it that way.

“I was most surprised,” she continued, “to find myself arriving at your residence when I was left with the distinct impression that you found me hardly worth a thought.”

Hardly worth a thought? How he wished that was true. He’d been unable to stop thinking about her since he’d first seen her. She invaded his dreams, inhabited his thoughts, occupied his mind.

“To be quite honest,” she carried on, “I suspect I will not be here long before someone offers for me. I doubt it is worth it to either of us for me to be in your employ.”

While he didn’t relish the thought of shattering her naiveté, he didn’t much like this dancing about either. Best to just get it said. “You’re not to be in my employ. You’re to be in my bed.”

She blinked, blinked, blinked. Opened her mouth, closed it. Blinked again. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your brother was seeking to find a man to take you as his mistress, not as his wife.”

She shook her head slightly as though she were almost frozen in disbelief, as though working out what he’d said was taking all her energy. “That can’t be. He promised Father that he would see that I was well taken care of.”

“Mistresses are often treated better than wives. At least I have no wife on the side, which is more than I can say for a few of the gents who were in attendance last night. As my mistress—”

“You can’t possibly want me to be your mistress. You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t have to like you to bed you. Truth be told, it’s better that there be no sentiment between us.”

She came to her feet in such a rush he was surprised she didn’t stumble. However, she did drop her glass. It fell to the carpet, spilling his extremely expensive Scotch.

“You’re wrong about last night,” she announced, her eyes welling with tears. “About Geoffrey’s intentions. He wouldn’t have brought me here if he’d known what you assumed, what you planned. He promised. He promised Father . . .”

Then she fairly raced from the parlor. He heard the front door slam, could almost feel the walls trembling with the impact. Swearing harshly, he tossed back his Scotch.

He supposed he could have handled that a bit better.

Chapter 4

E
velyn ran. And ran. And ran.

Her legs churning, her chest aching as she fought for breath, the tears blurring her vision. The rain pelted her, seeped through her clothing. Somewhere along the way she lost her hat, her pins. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, absorbed the wetness, weighted her down.

It was lies. It was all lies. Geoffrey wouldn’t be so cruel. In spite of the fact that he had never given her leave to think that he liked her overly much, he was innocent in this debacle. He’d not known what that horrid Rafe Easton had assumed, had planned. When she explained to Geoffrey what the man said, what he expected of her, Geoffrey would call him out. He would insist upon pistols at dawn. In honor of his father, he would protect her reputation. He would not allow her to be completely ruined.

Although he had never given her cause to believe that he would champion her, he was enough of a gentleman that he would not stand by while some cur took advantage of her.

All she had to do was get home. Thank God it wasn’t that far. She remembered the way. One street, and then another and another, and she would be there. The few people she passed stared at her as though she were a mad woman. But it was Rafe Easton who should be carted off to Bedlam.

Geoffrey would apologize for the misunderstanding, and then he would make everything all right. Years from now they might even laugh about it. When she was married and had children and a husband who loved her. He
would
love her. Maybe not at first, but in time.

What Rafe Easton proposed was so hideously horrible. How could he be so cold, so harsh, so uncaring? How could he think she would welcome his touch?

She wouldn’t. She would die first. She would scrub floors, she would . . . she would—

She couldn’t think, but it didn’t matter. Geoffrey had made a promise. He would keep it. He would see that she was well cared for.

Drenched to the bone, she turned up the long drive. The gaslights were lit along the path, guiding her. Her entire body was aching now. It was becoming harder and harder to pull air into her lungs. She stumbled, landed hard on her knees and hands, jarring her bones, rattling her teeth. Pushing herself to her feet, she staggered on and trudged up the steps.

She expected the door to open. A footman was always standing there to open it, but then they weren’t expecting her, were they? Grabbing the handle, she pressed it and pushed on the door—

It didn’t open. It was locked!

She banged the knocker. Over and over. Harder and harder, with the crash echoing around her. No one came.

“Geoffrey!” Oh, God, surely he wasn’t out of sorts about
that
. “Wortham! Wortham! My lord!”

She heard a click, the door opened slightly, and the butler peered out, barring her entrance.

“Manson, thank God. Let me in.”

“I’m sorry, miss. His lordship has forbidden me to allow you entry into the residence.”

“What? No, you’re mistaken. He wouldn’t—”

“I’m sorry, miss. But we have our orders.”

His expression as bland as unseasoned food, he closed the door. When she tried to open it, she found it once again locked.

She banged, kicked, screamed until she was hoarse. Her knuckles were bruised, her toes ached. Dejected, horrified, terrified, she unceremoniously crumpled onto the landing, all her strength zapped from her. The rain pelted her unmercifully, but surely he would eventually open the door if she just stayed here long enough. He had misunderstood his orders. Surely.

She became vaguely aware of someone crouching before her. She lifted her face. Through the haze of her hot tears, she saw Rafe Easton. His black hair was plastered to his head. He appeared to be as wet as she.

“Come with me, Evelyn,” he said, his voice calm, even.

She shook her head. “They won’t let me in. There’s been a mistake. He wouldn’t do this to me. He promised Father. He promised.”

“You’re soaked through. You’re going to catch your death.”

“I don’t care. He can’t be cruel enough to cast me out like this.” Why was she even talking to this callous man? He didn’t care about her. He only wanted use of her person. Her stomach roiled. She thought she might be ill. Shudders wracked her body. She didn’t know if it was the cold or the sobbing that almost had her convulsing. She’d never felt more dejected in her life.

A fog of grief snaked through her, settled around her. She was shaking so badly, her teeth chattering, that she could barely think. Where could she go? She had no friends, no one who would offer her sanctuary until she could determine how to resolve this dilemma. She had no funds. Everything was in her bedchamber. What had he said when he’d come for her? “We’re going for a ride.” And she’d been so grateful that she’d not questioned him further. Now she had nothing, no one. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to contain the pain.

“Damnation,” Rafe Easton growled.

There it was: more proof that he thought so little of her that he would use profanity in her presence. He considered her a guttersnipe. A wanton. Someone unloved. And now she was. She wanted to curl into a ball—

His arms came around her. She was vaguely aware of his holding her against his broad chest, lifting her as though she were little more than a sodden pillow.

She had a strong urge to protest, to let loose a scream that would wake the dead, but all she seemed capable of doing was sagging against him. She wished he were kind. She wished he had spoken for her, that he sought marriage, that his intentions toward her were not so wicked.

He wanted to ruin her, to take away her chance at happiness, a proper husband, and children. He wanted to dally with her, soil her reputation, then toss her aside. Wasn’t that what men did with mistresses? Her father might have even done that with her mother had she not died so young.

Her entire life she’d known exactly what her mother was: good enough to bed, but not to wed. Her father had always made her feel as though she were somehow better than that. Her brother made her realize that she wasn’t.

Beneath the roar of the pounding rain, she became aware of Rafe Easton’s muttering, “One more step, one more step. Almost there.”

She didn’t know why he was urging her on like that. She wasn’t the one taking the steps. Perhaps he thought his words would be reassuring, but she knew what would happen when they were finally
there
.

He would take the one thing left to her that mattered, that was of any value. She couldn’t allow that to happen, yet neither could she simply wander the streets. She would find the strength to fight him. She would find a way to barter, to bargain, to regain some pride and dignity.

She was vaguely aware of his climbing steps, of a door opening, of light washing over her.

“Good God,” a voice she recognized as belonging to Laurence said.

“I want a hot bath prepared for her. Rouse the maids to see to her care. She’s like ice. Hasn’t moved a muscle since I picked her up.”

Hadn’t she? She’d thought she’d been protesting, but perhaps it was all in her mind. She was conscious of him going up stairs. The wide sweeping ones that had so impressed her when she’d first stepped into the residence, before she’d known exactly why she was here.

She could hear other footsteps rushing by them, those of a servant perhaps. They reached the landing. The click of a door opening. He swept through the entry, his progress muffled by thick carpets before he set her on the bed. He grabbed her wrists, unlocking her arms from about his neck. When had she clutched him so? Why had she?

He stepped away without a tender touch, a word of kindness, a whisper of reassurance.

“Get her warm,” he barked. “Find her something dry to wear.”

Then she became aware of gentle hands urging her to care, to ignore the fact that the remainder of her life would be spent within the bowels of hell.

H
ell and damnation!

As soon as Rafe was in his bedchamber with the door slammed behind him, he began tearing at his sopping clothes before they suffocated him. Buttons went flying, brocade and linen ripped. He was fighting to draw in breath, had been ever since he’d made the ghastly decision to cart the woman back to his residence. He knew it was a mistake the moment she wound her arms about his neck and clung tenaciously to him.

He couldn’t very well drop her at that point, no matter how desperately he’d wanted to be rid of her cloying hold. So he’d urged himself on with a mantra:
One more step, one more step. Almost there.

Knowing all the while that he was lying to himself, that he had a good distance to travel. Why the devil hadn’t he taken the time to have his carriage brought round? He’d been almost certain where she was going. Instead, like a blundering idiot, he rushed out into the rain after her to ensure that she reached her destination without being accosted.

He’d wanted Wortham, the worthless blackguard, to tell her exactly what his plans for her had entailed, that he had purposely set out to ruin her, to turn her into what her mother had been. Rafe had intended to lead her back to his residence with the assurance that he would forgive her unconscionable behavior, but he would not tolerate it in the future.

Instead, he had watched as she’d banged on the locked door, had heard her exchange words with the butler when he finally appeared to her summoning, had seen her crumple into a shattered heap.

Damn Wortham for being the coward he was!

With his clothes finally strewn about his bedchamber, Rafe marched to the fireplace, set match to kindling. When the fire was finally going properly, he stood. The flames licked at the air, but the warmth barely reached him as, legs spread, head bowed, he grabbed the mantel and stared into the writhing precipice. Finally able to breathe again, he gasped in great draughts of air.

Anger swirled through him. Anger at Wortham for his insipid handling of the situation; anger at the woman for looking at him in abject despair. Images of his own caterwauling at the age of ten had rushed through his mind. It was disconcerting to feel completely helpless, to not know how to right things for her. He’d wanted to shout at her to stop blubbering, buck up, be strong, stop being a
baby
—

He pressed his head to the hard edge of the marble mantel, welcomed it digging into his brow. Was that the reason that Tristan had lashed out at him, called him a baby all those years ago? Because he’d felt helpless, maybe even terrified himself, had feared that he was on the verge of tears as well?

It had unnerved Rafe to see her reduced to a lifeless heap, especially when the evening before she’d been daring enough to inform him that they didn’t suit. As though he wanted them to be well matched, as though it mattered to him.

He should have left her on her brother’s front stoop, but by God, she was his now. He had claimed her, whether she liked it or not. Whether
he
liked it or not. He had put a great deal of effort into building a reputation as being someone who was dangerous, who got his way at all costs, who was not to be trifled with. What would happen to his reputation if word got out that he’d allowed her to escape him?

The aristocracy’s fondness for gossip was astounding. That he and his brothers were often the center of the gossip was beyond the pale. Why anyone cared what they did was outside his comprehension, but care they apparently did. Ever since the brothers disappeared on a cold wintry night in the year of our Lord, 1844. Rumors abounded regarding what had truly happened to them. When they returned to Society, the gossip worsened. They were viewed as barbaric, just because Rafe had held a pistol on a servant who had refused to announce their arrival at their uncle’s ball, and Sebastian had very nearly choked their uncle to death when he’d first clapped eyes on him. It had not helped matters that several months later their uncle died mysteriously.

So it was with certainty that Rafe knew a good many people were well aware he had taken on a mistress. Which meant, by God, that she would serve as his mistress. Whether she wanted to or not. Whether
he
wanted her to or not.

He was not a man known to waver when it came to decision making. He set his course, traveled it, and Lord have mercy on anyone who sought to block his path or prevent him from reaching his destination.

He didn’t know how long he stared into the fire arguing with himself, convincing himself that the arrangement regarding Evelyn—a name that didn’t roll easily off his tongue—had been made, and that he would follow it through, regardless of cost, when the rap on the door brought his scathing diatribe up short.

“Yes?”

“The lady has finished her bath, sir. She is presently drinking tea.” Laurence spoke through the door. Every servant knew that no one was admitted into Rafe’s chamber. No one. They thought him eccentric. If they knew the truth, they would believe him mad.

“Very well, that’s all,” he replied before shoving himself away from the mantel. He had a blinding headache. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair. It was dry, so he must have been waiting for her to be ready to receive him for some time now. When he was lost in thought, minutes could slip away without him realizing it. He didn’t allow clocks to govern his life. He did what he needed to do when he needed to do it.